Absolute Illusion
by Riyu Shimoji
Summary: OC After a bad breakup, half-gaijin Cheryl Niigaki looks into a mysterious promotional offer from the trusted company that made her silver hair color, gets a surprise. M for Lemon in later chapters. Riiko, Night, and Soushi will appear in the future.
1. Monday Night Brooding

October 2nd

It's been a bad day so far. For all of us. So bad, in fact, that my co-worker Keiko, who is also kind of like my supervisor, smoked a pack and a half of cigarettes today, and encouraged me to hang out with her at the bar for hours after work. I think Mondays are like this everywhere in the world, America and Japan alike.

It is past 10 p.m. when I am on the last bus home. My roommate Kimberly will be wondering where I am once every few hours, occasionally lifting her head up from . We'll exchange a few words and then I'll slump down on the couch, thinking about whether or not I want microwaveable ramen bowl for dinner.

This is the very first time I've ridden the bus alone. Usually there are businessmen of some sort coming back from the bars at this hour, disgruntled and reluctant to return home to their wives. Sometimes there will be a little old lady hugging the day's purchases close, her eyes swimming with excitement over treats to share with the daughter-in-law and the grandchildren. Me? I stick out like an ugly anglerfish in a country of sophisticated _koi_.

The street lights we roll by are rounded, but the beams of light resemble rectangular prisms. The gates to all the residential complexes are brick or metal fencing. This bus is a long tube. I am returning home to a small cube apartment that can only semi-comfortably accommodate two people once they get used to living in close quarters. I work at the Holiday Inn that has basically the same setup of corridors. I wonder if I will be confined to boxes for the remainder of my life.

It reminds me of something I read in one of those educational-motivational pamphlets by the nurse's office in high school, about relationships. It said that the minds of men operate like storage systems of all boxes. Males compartmentalize -- a box for TV or computer gaming, a box for work, a box for the girlfriend. And since they can only use, or commit to, one box at a time, this is why giving attention to the girlfriend while the game is on just can't work. Little by little I begin to understand and accept this.

I wonder what box I was in when my last boyfriend Kenichi cheated on me. It's been about a year after the fact, and once my fury subsided I began to wrap my mind around these "boxes". The fixation with porn, in all its available forms here in Japan, was a warning sign. Only recently did it become kinda-clear that relationships and sex have different boxes. Not that I've become okay with that, but perhaps that's just the way it is.

The fat bitch that he committed this offense with was obviously just the "sex box". There was nothing good about her whatsoever. (Not that I've become okay with _that_ either.) I once pondered aloud to Kimberly if whatever "box" I was in was all banged up and weathered, instead of flowery or shiny like the "naughty boxes". She just said that men aren't that complex -- no _real_ box in any guy's _real_ closet is shiny or has flowery decorations on it.

My roommate Kimberly is a half-Asian like me. She's half Korean and she's a lot more outgoing and outspoken than I am. We went to Zama High School together on the military base close by, and only really became closer friends our senior year. Today we find ourselves sharing this apartment in Atsugi, with the same common goal, a job and then looking into the prospect of college. We both want to stay in Japan. She's having a much better time than me, though. She'll find excitement out of anything, and I just go to the newly-opened Holiday Inn to look and feel like crap everyday.

" 'Sup?" she says when I walk in. She is looking at pictures of models with blond highlights on her computer screen, her own solid black hair strewn wildly about her shoulders.

"Ehhh," is the only response I can ever come up with after work.

"I saw this in the store today and it was so cute I had to buy some," she says, pointing to the countertop to my right. "I saved that one for you."

"Thanks!" I exclaim. I want to get into new types of cheap food too, but my schedule just doesn't permit. The first thing I see is a photo-illustration of a strawberry shortcake, layered with pink and white sugar sandwiching a spongy cream-yellow cake.

In a box.

And it looks like I'm just having cake for dinner.

I already went through the pigging out stage of my grief, and thank God that only lasted a week or so, and slouching here on the couch with sweets sometimes take me right back to those days. I was so gross.

Strawberry shortcake, for some reason, is not tasting so good after the Asahi beers that Keiko bought for me at the lounge back at the hotel.

Kimberly's round-but-cute face lights up because one of her MySpace friends from back in the States has just messaged her. She is bouncing in her seat to a Ludacris song, the kind of song that you stop understanding after awhile because you hear the word "booty" and all you can imagine in your mind is some chick with a huge ass gyrating on the hood of some celebrity's car. Anyway, I bet I'd probably be long over this stupid breakup if I was more like her.

"You're short-changing yourself if you think Kenichi is the only hot guy around, Cheryl," she told me at first. "Females can play the field just as well as the guys can. Just get yourself out there."

Now she says things like, "I can't do anything about it if you _want to be sad about it for months and months". But what can I do? Maybe falling in love and trying to be in a committed relationship at 18 is foolish, but I was honest about it and put my whole heart into it. I'm willing to bet that Kim thinks about her first love a lot too, just in secret._

_She has also proposed the idea of finding a temporary stand-in, someone to fool around with until I've completely gotten over it. Basically, a rebound. I'm actually guilty of entertaining the thought, but I'm not sure if I can do that. In some strange way, I put that on the same level of selfishness as what Kenichi did to me. Susceptible, lonely people aren't for playing with._


	2. Ever Growing

October 3rd

I'm actually thankful and proud to have such bold people surrounding me in my life. Kimberly is a party-girl, but the most responsible one you can find anywhere. And my co-worker Keiko, who is 31 years young, not only exemplifies the woman that Kimberly is going to be one day, but has also taken over the role of a mother, aunt, and older sister all in one.

I get harassed a lot by both of them, actually. They want me to be like them, assertive and loud. Apparently this is a part of the growing-up process that I'm just not catching on to yet. I always believed that by being smart, quiet, willing to adapt to others' preferences, and the last person to ever start conflict, _I_ was being the mature one. It takes way too much to be bold like them. It takes the kind of spirit and inner strength that I just don't think I have.

In the past few months following high school graduation I believe I have been bold in my own little ways. Keiko is to blame for my like of drinking and smoking. Kimberly, with her liberal display of her butterfly and flower tattoos, and navel piercing, egged me on to do something crazy until I finally broke down and dyed my hair. Silver.

As if I didn't get enough attention while out in public as it was.

Being half-Asian in Japan is weird sometimes. Kimberly and I both have similar stories about being stared at while in the United States, but here in Japan it is a curious stare: What _is_ that girl? Kimberly's face is round and merry. I think she represents the carefree and fun image of American people. Her eyes are larger and rounded, similar to my own, and we both have eyelid creases that most Asians don't, also called "double-eyelids". My face is a little narrower, with high cheekbones, fuller lips, and a shapely chin. My last name, Niigaki, is from Okinawa, but people say I actually look more Korean than Kimberly does.

So throwing platinum-silver hair into the equation tends to make my life a bit more… _interesting_. Actually, it was almost empowering, since I did it right after Kenichi and I broke up. Makes it look like I have overeating and self-mutilation problems. And maybe it _is_ a compulsion, but at least it's fun. I want a tattoo and a piercing just like Kimberly now.

Keiko and I are out on the balcony of a room we just finished cleaning, in our matching crimson uniforms. As I watch her cigarette smoke puff out and slowly dissipate in the air over downtown Atsugi, I remember how much she hated my new hair color. Now it doesn't bother her at all.

The more I get to know her, the more I think she and I will grow as a pair. From a distance, Keiko looks like a doll. She has a smooth, oval Japanese face with no blemishes, and a painted cherry mouth. She keeps her sleek, shiny hair back in a perfect chignon. Only when you stand close to her like this do you begin to notice her age. She has a long forehead with creases that become more pronounced when she's upset, and the corners of her eyes look tired. Still, I bet she was smoking-hot when she was young. And the way she talks sometimes, I'm quite sure she has tons of experience with male attention.

Which is why I can't talk to her about Kenichi very well.

Keiko, her hand adorned with golden bracelets and bright painted nails, shakes her soft pack of cigarettes at me until one slides out just a little. Marlboro Lights. One would never guess we had this kind of silent camaraderie -- every time we open up a new room to clean out, we look and act so pissed off. It didn't matter if we were finished with every room on one side of the hallway; we're still starting over every single time. The mood only worsens when we find what you just wouldn't _believe_, hanging out of the wastebaskets, thrown on the floor, left on the bed.

I still love the job, though. In the right mood. I like taking breaks like this out on the balconies, watching midmorning traffic, noticing when a brand new sign has been hung on the side of some building nearby. The construction men, short and cute in their helmets and ladders under their arms, are fun to watch because I want to buy one of their _tobi_ outfits for myself.

This Holiday Inn just opened last year. A lot of military rotate in and out of the area, and this is one of the cheaper English-speaking establishments to stay in for their visiting families. That was the primary reason why I took the job here. Kimberly and I had taken Japanese classes together in high school, and while we both scored very well, I only actually learned enough to ace the class. My boss agreed that it would be a good idea to team me up with Keiko for my part-time shift. I'd learn the ropes from someone who spoke English fairly well, and learn some Japanese.

So far, all I've really learned from Keiko, aside from the job, is how to say things like "Fuck off" or "I'm gonna kick your ass". It took a few weeks before I realized that was her form of coming around and being humorous and affectionate, as I'm sure she hated being stuck with me at first.

"Hey," she says out of nowhere, crushing her cigarette out on the railing, "I missed your last birthday, didn't I?"

"Um… yeah," I say, confused. "That was random. Why?"

"Do you know about the _Seijin Shiki_?" As she puffs out her last breath of smoke, her eyes narrow as though she is scrutinizing me. It can mean _anything_ when Keiko does this.

"No."

"Mmm." Seconds of silence pass. Then Keiko and I look down over the railing at a young man yelling his lungs out, advertising the morning's special at the new coffee shop. The picture of the latte cup drawn in chalk looks tempting; for a moment I imagine I can actually smell mocha.

"Well, you're turning 20 next year. In January they have what's called the _Seijin Shiki_. I'll help you find a _kimono_ and I'll get you into the local coming-of-age ceremony, if you want. Then after that you get a nice fancy dinner, and go out dancing and drinking all night."

This puts an instant smile on my face. "Really!?"

Keiko shrugs her shoulders, having picked up this American gesture from me very well, and sneezes before folding her arms and leaning against the wall. She doesn't know what kind of fairytale fantasy this sounds like to me. She stares nonchalantly at the vacuum cleaner I left sitting in the corner of the room.

"I just always thought it was a shame that you are _haafu_ and you still don't know much about Japan. We can talk more about it later. Right now I'm going to see if we can get an early lunch."

"_Arigatou, Keiko-san_!" I thank her deeply in her native language, bowing deeply like the peon subordinates do in the Yakuza movies.

She laughs at me.

"Maybe with a _kimono_ you'll look less like a freak with your hair. It will remind people that you are part Japanese. And then maybe a handsome boy will be curious about you," she teases me, sticking her tongue out, before she disappears beyond the sliding door.

I bet Kimberly would know what this _Seijin Shiki _is. She'd say the same thing too, about the handsome boy.

Which I know is a really, _really_ long way off, exploring the possibility of a new guy. But what excites me most about the idea is getting all dressed up in _kimono_, like a _geisha_. I wanted to learn all about that and everything else Japanese, but I can never get around to it.

My mother is from Okinawa. I've never been there. It's some island to the far south. I have heard that to this day there are still huge cultural and ethnic differences between there and Japan. Back home in the States my mother would dial her home once in awhile, and she would be hellbent on using Okinawan dialect. I guess I should have tried to dig deeper into _those roots instead._

_Oh well. I'm all sorts of jacked up right now. When it comes down to it, I'm not even sure that trying to fit in to a Japanese custom is going to fix it._


	3. Promotional Offer

October 3rd - afternoon

Keiko succeeded in getting us an early lunch, and we also took off early for the day too. I couldn't be any happier as I step off the bus and make the short walk to my apartment complex. It is not even four in the afternoon yet. Finally, for the first time in weeks, I'll be able to sit at home and watch more videos on MTV Japan and Space Shower TV. Seriously, sometimes it really helps with the pain. There are some freaking hot guys in the music industry here.

Also for the first time in weeks I have mail addressed to me. Even if it's junk, it's still intended for me. More than half the time Kimberly ends up throwing mail out. With her mad skills aside, there are some things that we just can't read. So far no repercussions. And we see our neighbors throwing out some of the same cards and pamphlets all the time.

I punch in the numeric code on the keypad that unlocks the door to our apartment. It sounds like nobody else on our floor is home, except for the single bald man I saw outside walking his cute little dog, Niji. I also haven't seen any of our landlord Ichiro in awhile. We did get a notice on our door announcing the new rose garden he planted by the front gate last week, though.

The door opens and in my excitement I can do so many things at once: kick off my shoes, turn the TV on, throw my sweater on the couch. I tap the channel-changing function without looking, pointing it over my shoulder as I tear open a package of microwavable _yakisoba_. I'm going to have a pretty awesome day.

I have just broken up my cheap wooden chopsticks when I remember the purple envelope I left on the coffee table.

"Kronos Heaven - For Members Only

To: Cheryl Niigaki"

It feels as though it has a CD disc inside.

Kronos Heaven, at first, was actually pretty cool. I figured it was a trendy business based in Tokyo, as most trendy things usually are, that sells every form of intriguing novelty. Months ago I posted on a Japanese BBS board looking for information about unnatural hair coloring, and got a PM back from an anonymous user recommending Kronos Heaven. I looked at the website, and the mission statement had something to do with devotion to making people's wildest dreams come true.

So with membership and almost ¥20000, I dyed my hair here at home by myself, in the bathroom sink. In one day I got sleek, shining silver hair, and indulged in two hours of vain modeling in front of the mirror with a fan blowing. And going from black to silver is a process that can take up to a year. Or more.

Dreams come true? Miracle-working? Sure, I'll buy that.

Then they started sending me discount ads for pills, creams, and dietary supplements. Oh well. I suppose what I got was more than worth it.

Do I trash it or not?

I notice that I have a new message awaiting on MySpace as I sit down to my laptop. I thought I was through with this stupid site after all the breakup drama -- and holy _shit _was there a lot of breakup drama. That's what you get when you date one of the most popular guys in school, during your senior year. I know I really had no business being so shocked and hurt over it.

But I wonder….

No, stop, Cheryl. This is a bad idea.

**Friends. Find Friends. Search for people. Browse by age, location, etc.**

My fingers are trembling. What am I thinking?

Although, it's not like anything's really changed. He probably hasn't even checked MySpace in months. More than likely it's the same picture of him posing at our Senior Class Party. The really _hot_ picture of him posing in a tank top, I might add. I'm sure the most visible damage that's been done on his profile was changing his Relationship Status to Single. Right?

Why do I even want to look at this anyway? Is it because I think I'll look at him differently after I've hated him for the past year?

I can't even open my eyes as I type **Kenichi Sato** in the search field. What's going to come up? Is he happy? Has he stopped smiling because he misses me? Did he post a blog about becoming a better person? Or has he forgotten all about me?

Tampa. He's in Tampa, Florida. He's gone to University of Tampa, to major in Financial Services Operations and Systems. Oh, that's nice.

Nice that he's in this picture getting drunk off his ass, kissing this stupid blonde Barbie chick.

That fucking JERK!

That is _so_ not cool. That's not even nice.

I have this flashback of us skipping out on the Asian Heritage Club and going to the bleachers on the sports field to make out. We're sitting there talking about nothing, holding hands.

"I don't like those cheerleader types at all. You know, those shallow chicks with the blonde hair and the whorish boots who wear American Eagle?"

He laughs. He has rows of beautiful, straight white teeth, and a baby face too.

"You're obviously not one of them, but I'd like to hear why," he says. His voice is gentle. He's a very softspoken guy, but when he gets excited he sounds like a mix of a five-year-old and a pumped-up jock right before a football game. He throws out Japanese phrases too. It's adorable.

"Oh, because growing up in Texas they picked on me a lot, and gave me a lot of shit, just because I look different."

"I'm happy you're different." He squeezes my hand. His is large and slender, and fits so well around mine. It makes me feel as though I'm being covered by a warm fleece blanket. "You're a gorgeous mix of Asian and American genes. Someday you'll realize you're better than ordinary girls who all look and act alike. Then they will no longer matter to you, and you'll be happy. Besides, the only person whose opinion should matter right now is me. And I don't want anyone but you."

And now look what happens.

My hands shake and I grip the edges of my screen in fury, tears stinging the corners of my eyes.

I had a boyfriend who was _perfect_, dammit. And I wasn't exactly the worst girlfriend in the world, either. What on earth is so wrong with me that he'd leave all our moments behind for some fat slut?

Breast enhancement pills? Acne creams? Weight loss supplements? Fuck it, I'll buy it all. If Kronos Heaven could transform my hair from black to silver within a day, surely they'll be able to identify whatever the hell my massive deficiency is.

The first screen flashes an irritating purple and pink, to the extent that I'm glad I'm not epileptic.

I click **English**.

_You're just a few clicks away from finding the ultimate lover of your dreams! Just click Start Questionnaire and you're on your way to romantic bliss! 3_

Really.

It seems to me like they're starting an online dating service.

_Free three-day trial!!_

Ah, that's how they get you. Hair dye was expensive enough as it was, and so is the rest of the junk they send out ads for every so often. And yet there are no membership fees for Kronos Heaven because they seem to think that their products and services will sell themselves.

I sigh as I think of scams like this back in the U.S. Miss Cleo anyone?

I most sincerely doubt they're going to find me the Ideal Boyfriend in a matter of three days, the only length of time I'm going to give them. And if they do, sure, I'll pay the astronomical amount of money for more information. Money won't be any object. Because it's _never going to happen anyway._

So. Question One.

**What is your ideal body type in a man?**

Not surprising there.

It turns out this questionnaire is pretty damn lengthy. It takes me some hours to go through more or less a thousand questions. But finding an Ideal Boyfriend based upon my 1,000-plus strict criterion, within three days, is their problem, not mine. And the easiest solution I can think of on their part, is to hire a male escort from one of those trendy clubs in Tokyo. Thanks, but no thanks.

But even then, after awhile I had started being a smartass and told them I wanted someone with a soaring-high IQ but not more intelligent than myself. I officially _have_ to be smarter than Mr. Potential Right. I'm not going to risk getting lied to and betrayed again. I'm gonna be on top of _everything_.

Soaring-high IQ with incredible martial arts skill, multilingual, can cook like a professionally trained chef, with a hot model body, likes video games, won't look at other women, open and honest, _and_ performs so well in bed that the sheets catch fire?

That eliminates, like, every man on the planet.

Good luck, Kronos Heaven.

And finally, **give a detailed description of your Ideal Boyfriend's physical appearance, and/or click on one of the fifty default images below, to give us a better idea.**

**The pictures are all undeniably cute, as much as I hate every male on the face of the earth right now. Some are blond, some have crazy spiked hair, some have ponytails, some have military cuts. Some are white, some are dark, some are obviously Asian. It's a rainbow of men, in a non-gay way. When I was younger and desperate for a boyfriend of any sort, my head would have been spinning at the prospect of being with any random one of them. I didn't know there were so many ethnic flavors working in Japan's escort business these days.**

"**My ideal boyfriend is handsome in a classic way, but not a clean-cut stereotype. Also I like Korean drama actors. They are a really popular trend lately."**

**Which they are, actually. I saw a bunch of subtitled Korean dramas on display at the DVD store the other day, and Kimberly's brother is extraordinarily hot… while he's also in and out of trouble with the law, unfortunately.**

**Good lord. I need to take a nap. Looking at men, and thinking about them, can be pretty exhausting.**

**I wonder if someday I'm just going to have to become a lesbian.**


	4. Special Delivery

October 4th - afternoon

It's a warm autumn day in Atsugi. The sunshine casts a dusty yellow haze on the city and I almost fall asleep on the ride home.

The rent payment has already come out, so Kim and I have to live conservatively for awhile. The refrigerator's low on apple tea, and there's too little yen in the jar on the counter to go out for snacks. Even so, I love being home before Kim. Today I could either take a nap, or spend some more time watching the music channels learning new songs for karaoke. That is, if I had the bravery to get up there and sing karaoke. I like to pass by the bars once in awhile. Most of the singers suck. But if I poke my head in when a lady is onstage, she looks like she's having the time of her life. I'd love to get to the point where I can enjoy myself like that.

The little white dog Niji barks happily at the front gate and I kneel to pet him after I make my way from the bus stop. It's a wonderful feeling when someone is glad to see you come home, even if it is a dog. Niji's eyes almost seem deep and expressive. It's been a long time since I'd seen such pure, unrestricted joy and elation on someone's face, even if he is only looking for someone to play with.

Today has also been a decent day.

The hallway smells of cleaning solution, the floor freshly mopped and shining. I'm thinking I might actually do some cleaning myself once I get inside, and hang something cute on the door. Only right now, I can't actually see the door. Something is concealing it in its own large shadow. I notice what looks like a large refrigerator box standing in the corner. Sighing, I really don't want to push it aside to be able to unlock the apartment.

There are two men crouching behind the box, leaning back against its side. They stand upon noticing me, wearing sunglasses indoors and drinking from cans of oolong tea. They are wearing black dress pants and matching jackets, their hair slicked back. Very classy and overdressed for people who are waiting to deliver this refrigerator.

The first guy has large buck teeth. He clears his throat and tugs a little on his tie.

"_Ano… Niigaki-san desu ka?_" he asks in a youthful voice. 'Are you Niigaki?'

"_Hai,_" I answer. And I didn't order a refrigerator, especially not one expensive enough to come in a box painted in a blue-and-chrome futuristic theme. Just the box itself can blind someone when the light hits it from an angle, and I hope for the customer's sake that it can brew iced apple tea on its own.

The second man holds out a clipboard, smiling at me awkwardly. He has a mustache that he must have tried for months to grow, just bits of sparse stubble on his upper lip.

"Sign," he says in a choppy burst, finally picking up that I'm more _gaijin_ than Japanese.

"_Demo… sore wa watashi no ja nai_." I guess. 'But, that's not mine,' I hope I said.

The first man waves his hands in an 'X' formation and shakes his head. Not his responsibility. Got it. Well, with any luck, hopefully I can call the landlord and ask him whatever the hell this form says. For now, I'm sure he just wants a signature to show the fridge was delivered.

Getting the damn thing out of the hallway is a laborious task. I nearly break sweat sliding the box a little to the right just to unlock the door, then I have to move the trash can to hold the door open. The only space I could possibly fit this box is up against the couch, and after that, I no longer want anything to do with it.

My elbow knocks against the box as I approach the kitchen, and the box falls to the floor with a thud. I wince and slap my forehead, but the _bang_ wasn't loud enough to really disturb anyone. What kind of fridge is this? The box is made of the softest cardboard around, and it's been dented around the top just from tipping over.

Great, so now I just damaged this expensive refrigerator, and I'm going to have to surrender my paychecks for the next five years to cover it. Might as well see what exactly is wrong with it.

I glide the blades of my scissors through a mess of heavy-duty tape and glue, and blow an extra fifteen minutes prying through thick staples. The box finally gives way, and I sink wrists-deep into folds of crinkling plastic. Into a mass of something soft with a creamy yellowish tinge.

OH. MY. GOD.

My cell phone goes crazy vibrating in my pocket when I jump back at the sight of the outline of a human male. The softness was skin. Shining black locks fall flat against the plastic covering and frame his unconscious face. It looks as though he was young and sprawled out comfortably on his bed, unknowing that he would be wrapped in plastic and shipped somewhere.

"Hello? Hello? Is this Cheryl Niigaki?" the male caller sounds happy. And knows English.

"Yes, but you've called at a very bad time. You see I'm in the middle of a huge problem--!" I choke, a lump forming in my throat and my eyes stinging with fresh hot tears.

I cannot believe what I am seeing. Part of me still hopes that this is some cruel, twisted joke, but that would be way too naïve of me. There's no way this isn't what I think it is.

Why me? Why ruin _my_ life? I have my doubts that there's a shady cult member or human trafficking warlord or whatever the hell else, here in Atsugi, Japan, that goes by Cheryl Niigaki.

I am going to be fifteen thousand levels of massively screwed, with all the trouble I'm about to get into for having a limp, lifeless man delivered to my house. In plastic. In a refrigerator box.

Naked.

"That's too bad," says the overzealous guy. "But before you take care of that, I was hoping I could at least inquire as to your package from Kronos Heaven that was supposed to arrive today."

"K-Kronos Heaven?" I repeat stupidly, trying hard not to stare at the cold face of the corpse in my living room. At least his eyes are closed.

"That's right. You ordered your custom-made ideal lover from our newest Divinity series, free three-day trial! I'm Masanori Kanegawa from Kronos Heaven, just wanting to call and ask if your delivery made it there safely!"

My hands shake, and have turned pale white. This "purchase" can't have been much older than me, and here he was -- the victim of some evil corporation, just like you see in the movies. And he was terribly handsome, from what I can tell. I immediately want to throw myself on him in an apologetic hug and return him to his mother for a proper, respectful burial. Maybe if it wasn't an actual _corpse_.

"Are you still enjoying your silver hair, by the way?"

"What the FUCK do you think you're doing sending me this?!" I scream into my mobile phone, nervously yanking at my hair. "I did NOT order this! You've got to take this monstrosity back! In fact, before you do, I'm going to call the cops! Right fucking now!"

Masanori Kanegawa sighs. "I should have known this was going to happen. Miss Niigaki, please calm down. Packed into that box next to his leg is a manual. Divinity Model 04 is a lover figure. You'll have to boot him up and maintain him just like any other household appliance."

"You have got to be kidding me," I wail, tears rolling down my cheeks as I stare hopelessly at the afternoon sun pouring through the blinds like stripes of lava. "I didn't order this. Please take it back. There has to be a mistake."

"I'm afraid that since it's already after four p.m., I can't have it picked up, Miss Niigaki. If this is what you really want, you can hold him there until tomorrow. I'll come by and remove him personally. In the meantime, however, I do strongly suggest that you at least get to know more about your free trial product, and perhaps even enjoy him!"

"But--!"

"Kronos Heaven offices have to close now, Miss Niigaki. See you tomorrow!"

And Masanori Kanegawa, this high-pitched fruitcake son of a bitch, hangs up on me.

Immediately I fall to my knees and bend over the open box, violently shredding the plastic covering over his face. Maybe there's still a chance I can save him, get him to breathe. After all, he still has color. Gently, and then more forcefully, I slap his cheeks, desperate for a response. His face and neck are still warm, and I watch to see if his chest moves up and down. He's not breathing.

It's as if suddenly I'm living in a crappy horror novel. Like a retard, I ask for the perfect boyfriend and expect him to be delivered to me, which he does… dead.

Really, it's sad. This boy has high cheekbones and a smooth face that feels freshly-shaven. His nose has a thin bridge, it's a little small, and his closed mouth is full and relaxed in the most naturally refreshing pure rose-pink. Almost. His eyebrows are manly, thick but neatly groomed, shapely. Even his hair shows signs of life, deep and shining midnight black with flashes of blue or purple depending on the light and the angle. He looks like someone I would have enjoyed admiring from afar.

He is positioned on his side, curled up in a position that I sometimes like to nap on the couch. His muscles are extremely defined, especially in the buttocks and legs. Whoever put him in this box strategically placed him in such a way that his junk stays hidden where it belongs.

Maybe he was an arrogant, spoiled fashion model who had it coming.

I peel back more of the plastic, and wedged into the bend of his leg is a thick, glossy blue book, thicker than any dictionary, and much heavier. _Divinity Series Lover Figure - Consumer Manual - English Edition_. The first section is nearly a fifth of the whole book, describing a warranty policy, safety cautions and hazards, legal procedures, the whole nine yards. They really are trying to convince me that this is a household appliance -- even that, a sex doll. The page numbers are printed with tiny little red and pink hearts. And condoms.

_Initial startup process and owner recognition. Your figure's lips were created with a sensor that detects your own personal body heat. Simply give him a hot, passionate and meaningful kiss and let the fun times begin!_

Um, excuse me?

A little note beneath the paragraph says that using tongue would be a safe and sassy option. Gross.

My heart races and my palms begin to sweat. There were already fifty million things wrong with this picture before I even got this far. Would there be any difference how much trouble I get into whether I do this or not? Doubtful. I should have called the police several minutes ago.

And since probably nothing will happen, I suppose that if I _really_ wanted to, I could kiss it. And then I'd expose Kronos Heaven for the type of company it really is.

But what if I end up looking like that woman who sued McDonald's after spilling hot coffee on herself?

However… the sooner I try to interact with it, the sooner, and more easily, I can get this thing out of my apartment.

Awkwardly I get onto all fours and examine the gorgeous dormant face. I realize how easily I've been swayed. How exactly do I know, and how easily can I truly believe, that he was not once a living person? Is it simply for the fact that he is warm and has skin color?

I touch a fingertip to his bottom lip gingerly, then pull back in fright. Feels realistic, and yet so different. I stare at my finger, perplexed at its sudden warmth. The kind of warmth that can only come from a machine. And he smells like plastic. An expensive high-tech mannequin?

I draw in a deep breath and close my finger and thumb around his nose. Lest anyone should walk in. I'll say I'm giving mouth-to-mouth, to a plastic training dummy. Even though I never found out a thing about medical training in Japan. I go to the military base for my medical needs.

In a torrent of guilt and disbelief, I focus my eyes on the floor, searching for a spot to clean. I don't even want to see what I'm doing. At the last moment I squeeze my eyes shut with all my might, pressing my closed mouth onto his, my nerves on fire upon the soft glide of our lips making contact. Unbearable heat rises to my face, and I sit upright in shame.

Suddenly it begins with the shrug of his shoulders, smooth skin pulled taut over finely-shaped bone structure. He has a collarbone that -- well, the first word that comes to mind when I see it is "tasty". The cardboard box begins to creak as his upper body rises like in a vampire movie. His long, toned arms stretch out to the sides and I jump back, observing him tilt his head from side to side, stretching out his neck. I can hear a slight wheeze in his very first few breaths, in and out through his nose.

He sleepily blinks his eyes open for the very first time. In the most eerie way, I see from the shape of his delicate half-moon eyes that he is Korean, just like I had written in my custom request. Those eyes dart to the side and catch me. His mouth curls into a humble smile and he stares directly into my face instead of sweeping up and down like a lot of men do. And he blinks.

"_Hajimemashite… kanojo." _Nice to meet you… girlfriend.


	5. Yoshio Ishihara

October 4th - afternoon

"Uh… what?" I jump back in embarrassment, bringing my hand to my neck to soothe the chills.

"Oh. You speak English," he says this time, leaning back on his palms. "I said it's nice to meet you… my girlfriend." His stare is patient, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

"There has to be some mistake here," I panic, my voice cracking. "You see I didn't quite understand what I was getting when I put in my order, and I thought it was a dating service, and -- What are you?"

"Your ideal boyfriend." He runs his long, slender fingers through his feathery black hair and flashes me a toothpaste-commercial smile, the way the boys smiled in their pictures on the website. "And I'm happy to finally see you. Let's get started."

"Get started?"

"Yeah. We have lots of getting to know each other to do. But first…." Flexible, he bends over and tears open the plastic all the way down to the end of his refrigerator-box coffin. Standing upright, he stretches his arms like any regular person waking up in the morning, then kicks the box aside.

My knees quiver as he approaches me. He towers over me easily, but not in an intimidating way, and he takes caution not to put his hands on me.

"So what's your name?"

"Cheryl Niigaki."

"And what's my name?"

"_What_?"

He shrugs casually, and I am most intent on not looking down at his nakedness. Having not seen a naked man in a very long time, I feel multiple levels of discomfort of having one in here so easily, without even wanting one.

"You don't have to give me one if you don't want to. I just thought that, with a name, I could make this relationship feel more _real_." He speaks in an extremely soft-spoken baritone, rich but gentle. I hear him speaking as both a confident adolescent and a kindergartener on his first day of school. If that makes any sense.

"Real. Which you are… not?" Without realizing my rudeness, I point a finger at his bare chest. His smooth, flat pecs.

"Nope. I was created entirely for you. Whatever you want to do with me." He spreads his arms out wide, welcoming either a hug, or… worse.

"Don't be shy," he adds.

At long last I draw up the courage to see him fully, my eyes sweeping up and down, but not without shame.

But the first thing that comes to mind is, _Adonis. _Sure enough, he looks like a carved, masterpiece statue of a god. Well, maybe part god and part soccer player. Not only has he got the outlines of a six-pack, and the 'V' shape between his hips that male models have, but I don't even want to talk about how… well… that which makes him male… would be promising to a woman with that particular kind of mood and appetite right now. Wow.

"I--I can't even think straight right now," I stammer, squeezing my eyes shut in dizziness. I can't understand why overwhelming anger is starting to take over.

"Don't feel well, Cheryl? Then you can sit down." Hands on my shoulders, using no force, he walks me over to a barstool and sets me on it, my ankles dangling weakly a few inches off the floor. At this point I could have been knocked over with a leaf of paper.

"Thanks, but… I'm really sorry; this is a lot for me to take in at once. You're just not what I was expecting in the mail today." All the while he doesn't seem to be paying any attention. Comfortably, in his first few moments of real _life,_ he somehow picks up on what I'm needing, and finds an unopened bottle of iced apple tea in the refrigerator.

"This looks refreshing," he says cheerfully, twisting the plastic cap off. "You should drink this."

"Thanks. It's my favorite."

"Good! I can't wait to learn _all_ of your favorites." He looks at me with eyes that remind me of Keiko's three-year-old nephew. Honest, sincere, innocent. It almost hurts to look at them.

That's when I first realize it's not his fault. Nobody just _asks_ to be sent to my apartment, and certainly no real human being acts this way around somebody he doesn't know.

"I'm worried about you not feeling well, Cheryl. I was actually hoping you'd be happy to see me and meet me, but you're not," he admits sadly, laying his comforting warm hand upon mine own.

I take a hard, stinging cold swallow of tea, the sweetness of apple spreading across my tongue as I rush to find words. I concentrate my gaze on the smiling Hello Kitty kitchen clock.

"It's not your fault. I'm just really surprised you came. It's just that I can't have a serious conversation with you while you're naked," I tell him, struggling to gain my composure.

"Well then," he says with an understanding nod, hands folded elegantly across the countertop, "that can be fixed. I just need to find some clothes."

"I'm broke," I explain. "And without transportation, so there probably won't be any going shopping today."

He kneels in a modest position by his box, investigating with a thoughtful expression on his gorgeous face, then reaches in the depths of plastic wrapping.

"My default clothing is a white undershirt and a pair of straight-cut jeans," he announces proudly, waving a flat, square package in the air.

"Then why were you delivered naked?!"

"Honestly?"

"Never mind!" I interrupt him quickly, waving my hand. "Go into the bathroom, shut the door behind you, and put those on. Come out when you're done."

"I see you want to do things in a traditional manner," he says with a smile and a deep, respectful bow before retreating into the bathroom. I'm not quite sure what he means, but it affords me an extra minute to calm down and figure out what to do next.

A three-day trial means a light at the end of the tunnel, for me. I have until Kimberly comes home, which will be soon, to figure out a plan. I had a hard enough time hiding her last birthday gift, and that was just a CD. There's no stuffing him in a closet or underneath the couch, especially with that big box in the middle of the place.

There's only one alternative, and I'm going to get so much shit for this.

"Look, Cheryl! Flip-flops!" he says as he emerges from the bathroom.

"That's great, now put them on," I tell him hurriedly. "I need you to help me carry your box outside. Make sure all your belongings are taken out of it, because I'm taking you to meet a friend of mine tonight."

"Awesome!" His chocolate eyes light up and he immediately crouches before the box, elbows-deep in plastic. "What shall we tell your friend that my name is?"

I roll my eyes toward the ceiling and search for a random male name. Something safely Asian, perhaps something I've read in a book. It's sad that the first things that come to mind are video game or popular culture characters.

Sora? No. Kingdom Hearts is well-known.

Gackt? You're kidding me.

Genji? I don't know the damndest thing about the classical novel, other than its ? _Waaay_ too obvious.

"Shit, um… Yo---shi---yo," I randomly grope for sounds. "Yoshio! Is that bad?"

"Not at all! My name is Yoshio." Enthusiastically, he claps his hands together and presses them. Which, by the way, is kind of cute and hilarious to see someone do at, say, twenty-plus years of age.

"I don't know any Korean names."

"Only my face and my body are Korean."

"Then we'll say you're half," I say impatiently.

"Niigaki Yoshio?" he suggests, taking the other half of the box and lifting it. Together we advance toward the door.

"Not buyable. Let's call you _Ishihara_ Yoshio." It feels better being busy while I have the strangest of crises at hand. I'm beginning to discover how good I am at thinking on my feet and telling lies. It's actually kind of scary.

Miraculously, nobody is out in the hallway while we're lugging this gigantic box. This time it's not heavy, just cumbersome. The air is thick with the smells of home-cooked Japanese food, and after living here for some time, my nose is now keen to the distinct scents of seaweed and sauces rather than just steamed rice. Right now, I dearly wish I could sit down and have something, a real meal, without worrying about such a daunting task as raising someone like a child. Or restoring someone from the dead, whichever way you want to look at it.

"Let me tear it up for you," Yoshio volunteers himself, breaking down the towering cardboard, standing with me next to the consolidated garbage bins. "While being outside of this box is nice for a change, it's strange that I feel I might miss it, somehow."

"What are you talking about?"

Yoshio and I turn around to find none other than Kimberly, arms laden with plastic grocery bags. Today she wears tight khaki pants tucked into fur boots and a sea-green shoulderless sweater, bra straps sticking out and all. Stars and hoops dangle at her earlobes, and an iPhone in her pocket plays a muted song from some emo band I don't recognize.

"Kim, this is Yoshio Ishihara, and he's a new employee, and he came to the apartment 'cause I left my wallet there and he came to bring it back, and we were just going back," I tell her.

"You said that all in one breath," she points out with cocked eyebrows, then flips her hair back a little and gives Yoshio her thorough scan. Oh God, here it comes.

And the next thing you know, the two converse in Korean. Which is the most complicated language I've ever listened to. Kim's face contorts in a series of different surprised reactions, Yoshio continually bowing and laughing modestly. The casualness of open Korean acquaintanceship with polite Japanese mannerisms. It's like an airport out here.

"Then what was with the box?" Kim asks.

"The Tanida family got a new fridge delivered to them today and they needed some help."

"Well that's just weird. The Tanida family also just got a new microwave the other day. And since Mr. Tanida didn't get the promotion he was expecting, and with their three kids, it's a wonder…."

"Yeah, well…." I can't think of anything to say. I've already exercised my stretching the truth enough.

"Do you want help with the groceries?" Yoshio asks, and I curse under my breath.

"You can next time," Kim says flirtatiously over her shoulder as she makes her way in. "I've got some other stuff to do today. Have Cheryl bring you back soon, okay?"

"Okay! Nice meeting you!" he calls after her cheerfully.

"What were you two talking about?" I demand.

"She thinks I'm funny because I told her I came from a box, and she wanted to know my birthday, and I told her it was today," he reports stupidly.

"How old did you tell her you are?"

"She didn't ask. She just said happy birthday."

"Anything else?"

"I promised her I was gonna be the best boyfriend ever for you."

"_WHAT?!_"

"But she said you're not in the market right now because you had relationship problems in the past. Did you get your heart broken, Cheryl? I'm so sorry." Adoringly, he rubs my shoulder and offers a sympathetic smile.

"That's not something you and I are going to talk about," I tell him firmly.

"As you wish. Where does your friend live?"

"We're taking a walk to the bus stop, and taking a bus a little ways downtown."


	6. First Dinner

October 4th

I seriously don't know how I'm going to explain this to Keiko. She's cool and all, but somehow I feel the idea of telling her that Yoshio came by mail will be pushing it, maybe just a little. This is all I can think about while Yoshio and I are on the bus; minutes already pass before I realize he's pushing my head onto his shoulders. How I'm supposed to be relaxed by that, I have no clue, but I figure that since Yoshio hasn't pulled anything horribly appropriate while we were alone in the apartment, he's harmless enough. I hope.

This is going to be the most expensive three-day trial in the history of the entire universe. Because now I may have to purchase him a room at the hotel, and it's not like I qualify for the employee discount yet, and the bus fares around here aren't that kind to me either.

The early-evening sun gives a warning that it'll descend soon, like a yawn. The radio is playing an advertisement for something I don't understand, and the bus driver is jolly like usual with his fancy hat and driving gloves. Yoshio frequently tilts his head up in interest, smiling because he understands what the radio ad is about. I keep my fingers bent in a death-grip around my phone, after receiving a text from Keiko. Now she knows I'm coming, and I'd told her it was kind of important.

"What's that noise?" Yoshio asks, looking down at me and blinking in concerned curiosity.

"What noise?"

"_That._" Like a mouse afraid to finagle cheese out of a trap, his fingers tremble before they settle on my stomach. "Your stomach sounds funny. Are you sick?"

I roll my eyes. "Seriously? I thought you were supposed to be smart. My stomach is making noises because I'm hungry. And because you showed up and I have to take care of you, I'm missing dinner."

"I'm sorry." He gives an apologetic half-bow in his seat, his bangs spilling over from where they had been neatly combed over the top of his head, like a black mini-curtain. A shadow casts itself upon his forehead and half his face, and I can almost perceive sadness.

"You know what, don't worry about it. I'm sorry myself. I'm just a little frustrated, and my nerves are going haywire, and… you get it."

"I could have cooked for you."

"There's nothing in my kitchen to cook."

Silence.

"Maybe you could tell me more about yourself."

"What do you want to know?" I lean my head back against the seat, eyes closed.

"Well, anything. How old are you?"

"I'll be twenty soon."

"Where do you want to go for our first date?"

Eyes still closed, I raise an eyebrow.

"Excuse me?"

"Do you prefer outdoors or inside, day or night…?"

"Hardly an appropriate question the first day meeting someone, if you ask me." Then, in a hushed voice, "That's how I can tell you're really a product and not a real human."

"I can see you're displeased, and I'm really sorry. It's just that I haven't seen you smile yet, and that's what I was made for. But we've only got three days together, so will you at least think about it?"

I still see Kenichi standing casually in his signature preppy jacket on a spring day, etched inside my eyelids. By comparison, he was a guy of less words, and somehow it was understood between us that we were going to be an item. It never became a question of giving Kenichi a chance, but nonetheless the same overall gentlemanly charm was there. Is that why I'm acting so hostile to the faultless Yoshio?

"Yeah, I'll think about it," I give in. "Thanks for asking."

Is one exempt from being polite to another just because that person isn't actually a person?

Was the Divinity Series living mannequin made for the desperate? Is it designed as a temporary fix, or for an entire lifetime? Is it like a pet to comfort the lonely widows? Or is it meant to be like a Chippendale dancer, meant to look at but not for touching? Or is Kronos Heaven simply competing against the booming escort business?

I wonder how much Yoshio costs.

And I hope he can make his actual buyer happy someday. Provided that she doesn't mind that he's weird.

But what am I going to do with him for now?

The bus has stopped.

"Oh crap. Come on," I say, mindlessly grasping him by the wrist, like a little kid. "This is our stop. I'm taking you to where I work."

"Awesome! What do you do? Are you an architect? An artist? Or just a cute waitress?" I can't help but notice the way the white undershirt clings to his body shape. He's skinny around the waist, almost like a girl, and the way he self-consciously pulls it down over his jeans is human.

"Where do you come up with these ideas?"

"The Divinity Series goes through an indoctrination on real people, when we're first tested. I have the certifications in your manual at home," he says, nodding confidently. There's an almost imperceptible dimple next to his mouth as he grins in satisfaction. "Women in Japan are moving up in the workforce. They can have careers in anything now."

"You almost sound like my Business Management textbook."

His eyes widen in shock, then he brings his hands into a tight bundle and clutches it to his chest. "You're a business manager? That's so great, Cheryl! I'm so honored!"

That kind of assumption can only really bring out a deep sigh.

"No, but I have a book on it. I work at the hotel downtown because I'm trying to save money for college. And once that's over, maybe someday I can be a business manager. Or whatever else."

"It would be cool if I could be something one day," he says, staring down the street. It's hard to determine whether he's actually seeing, or has been built with a sensitive detection system. Maybe all he sees is grids with square-ish diagrams.

"Maybe you can," I tell him, deciding to be kind. "It's not like anybody can easily tell you're not human. If you have the interest, I don't see why not."

Big fat lie. If he came with a serial number, it's probably not going to fly as, say, a Social Security Number. Plus, all his awkwardness, and childishness, and cluelessness, would even get him locked up someday. This is why I'm feeling so responsible.

The walk to the Holiday Inn has started to feel less lonely. As the sun starts its descent, there are now two long shadows on the sidewalk instead of just mine. The roads are still packed with cars though, and the orange glare on the signs is blinding. It's a weird feeling, since I'm used to traveling in the opposite direction around this time of day. Now we begin to see more elegantly-designed buildings, roundish crème-colored concrete architecture, taller rectangular buildings consisting of mainly glass windows, pristine office buildings with traces of Japanese-ness like polished wooden signs adorned with chunky traditional brush-calligraphy.

Teenagers with bleached hair and eye-aching fashion sense congregate in the parking lot of a Family Mart convenience store on my left, slurping from straws speared into boxes of milky teas. Petite bodies with smiling faces serving customers at the counter, bowing in their uniform smocks. The evening's first businessmen perusing magazines and newspapers by the window. Even for a _gaijin_ with limited Japanese abilities, the little store beneath a white border with green and blue stripes exemplifies happiness in the most simple pleasures in life.

"We should go in," my new mind-reading friend says.

"Not this time." My heart sinks just a little.

"But you're hungry. Come on." Not willing to take no for an answer, he seizes my wrist the way I took his getting off the bus, and effortlessly drags me to the sliding doors with the stride of a man on the warpath.

"_Irasshaimase_," the staff behind the counter sing in a dull tone. 'Welcome.'

Yoshio smiles and offers a respectful bow, then speaks to them in Japanese, in a rapid chatter. He 'points' at me with flat, open hands, and the two women and one man behind the counter smile at me.

"What did you say to them?" I demand quietly behind my teeth.

"I said you were hungry. They said feel free to have a look around. Look, _obentou_! And spaghetti dishes! Oh, _that_ looks delicious…!"

I stop in my tracks and swerve my body around, giving him a full, hard look in the face.

"Back up the bus here for just a second. You eat?"

"I can," he says with a shrug.

At that moment, it's almost disorienting. The last time I was being looked at in the face, so directly, by a hot guy, was…. Well, it was a long time ago.

Do I ever hate cheaters. If Yoshio had been just some random guy and not a mail-order doll, I would be terribly upset by the way the whole experience with Kenichi has ruined me with guys.

But perhaps that's just a natural law. You don't get a hot guy every single time. Not twice in a row, anyway. Not _me_, anyway.

"Oh. Well since you've committed me to this -- which, thanks for the embarrassment, by the way -- I guess I'm going to _have_ to buy something," I say flatly, but not without noticing the two women behind the counter stifling giggles while they stare at Yoshio. If they only knew.

"They said in the training video that if you don't eat, you'll die," he says with a frown. It kind of bothers me that he's still devastatingly good-looking when he looks sad. His eyebrows raise a little, and join together; and they're not fat, bushy 'man' eyebrows either. Some men, the few and far between that look like Yoshio naturally, look like they pluck and shape their eyebrows, even though I know they don't. And one thing he does have that Kenichi didn't, is a square chin. I think I really enjoy looking at his chin.

If he was "created" for the enjoyment of women, then there's no shame in _looking_, is there?

"You won't die from missing one meal. You die from missing _too many_ meals. I think I read that it takes over a month, for your average person. Trust me. Someone as messed up as I am _loves_ food, and doesn't make a habit of missing meals. Now do you want anything or not?"

"Maybe we can share one?"

"_I'm hungry_, dude."

"Okay, then I'll have what you're having!"

"The budget doesn't allow a chicken _katsu_ tonight, so I'm having the hamburger patty with the red sauce on it, with the soba noodles on the side. Cool?"

"Very cool."

And so it turns out I bought him a meal. That's ¥240 on him so far.

"Thanks so much, Cheryl! You're very kind," he says humbly, chewing away at the hamburger patty at a natural pace. He has insisted on leaning against the cold metal bicycle rack, the way we had seen the high-schoolers do it when we came in. The cut of his faded jeans and his long legs make his body look like a pencil, his right leg crossed over the left at the ankle. Even his feet, decked out in sandals that look like Birkenstocks, look superhumanly perfect, smooth with pedicured toenails.

"It looks bad, and feels bad, to eat when someone with you isn't."

"This is the first food I've ever had, and I'm really enjoying it."

"Do you taste it?"

"Nope."

"Then why would you say you're enjoying it?"

"It feels good to do what_ you _do."

"Not all of what I do in my life is enjoyable. You'll find that out when we go to my work. Which, by the way -- I'm ready to roll when you are."

"Yes, let's go to meet your friend."

Is it weird that I had fun doing this?


	7. The Full Hookups Part 1

October 4th - late night

"_Ehhhh_, he's so _hot_, Cheryl!" Keiko chatters, cigarette between her fingertips and her head almost spinning all the way around while she looks at him. Time has worn on already, and I remain on the balcony with her. Yoshio watches TV inside the vacant room, his eyes moving as though he's reading it rather than staring like we do. Traffic in the street is still heavy down below, and our conversation is muffled by the bleating car horns. A slight chill hangs in the air, which is now dark, thick, and hazy with light pollution and Keiko's cigarette smoke.

"I guess he must be, 'cause everywhere we go people are staring at him. So there's nothing outwardly _wrong _with him then?" I have to ask, paranoia setting in. Popular culture, and the Western view of this strange country, wouldn't put it past Japan to put true artificial intelligence robots on the street so casually, and being the first citizens to own them, surely the Japanese would be able to spot one on the bus, or at FamilyMart.

"What, are you blind?" Keiko's eyes widen as she puffs, reminiscent of an anime character's. "He's _perfect_! What could be wrong with him? Except that he's hanging out with you. How did you come across this guy again?"

"Um, he needed some help around town," I tell her. "He's planning to attend Tokyo U very soon. He's transferred from Korea and is looking for a cheap place to live."

"All the way out here in Atsugi?"

"Well, he wants a job first. He likes the scenery here better."

"And you want me to help him get a place to stay for the next three days."

"Yeah, while he's apartment-hunting."

More cool, casual, disturbing lies. Still, Keiko scrutinizes me, her narrowed, astute eyes scanning me. She raps her fingernails against the railing of the balcony. Ruby grapefruit-colored lipstick stains the filter on her Marlboro Light.

"Okay, but no more favors for awhile," she says, wagging her finger.

"Thank you Keiko-san!" I wheeze with relief, giving her a deep bow. This is going to put a significant dent in my bank account, but it's only three days, and I'm not about to risk keeping Yoshio at home.

"I never knew a Korean-Japanese could be so handsome," Keiko half-whispers to herself.

Downstairs, Yoshio's eyes are busy taking in everything -- the new, polished tiled floor of the lobby, brass pots that hold dusty fake moss and dusty fake trees. A few workers are still busy putting in the new koi pond in the center of the room, and Keiko's voice is honeyed as she speaks to the front desk about a room for Yoshio.

"This seems like a fine place to work," Yoshio says in breathless admiration. "It's so comfortable and attractive!"

"Well, we do get to eat some of the continental breakfast right before we open the buffet in the morning," I admit. "You'll have to try it tomorrow morning. It's free."

'_Oh, that's right, dumbass. Yoshio can't taste food. Well, that sucks._'

"What kind of food do you serve in there?" he asks, towering over me. "They speak both Japanese and English here, so will they serve Japanese food or American food?" I feel like a child when standing in the shadow of his gargantuan height -- but my god, he _is_ hot. Especially when he absently combs his fingers through that clean-cut hair, and his smile dimples. He definitely looks like a pop star, or a TV drama actor.

Maybe I'm supposed to feel special, in a way.

"Western pastries and cereal and stuff for breakfast," I explain, offering my card up to the front to pay for the room. "Japanese food is available for lunch and dinner though. Want to see what your room looks like?"

"Sure! That's all I really wanted. Just to have more time alone with you."

"I'm not sure you're understanding," I have to explain firmly as we enter the elevator. "I can't stay. You remember Kimberly, my roommate. I can't leave her to take care of the apartment all by herself, and I like to get to sleep early, because I have to be back here tomorrow morning. To work."

"I don't mind going home just to relax. I'll help take your mind off things. You seem so tense anyway. And I'll make sure you get to bed extra-early." He nods earnestly.

"Yoshio…" Dammit, I'm tired. "I can't do that. Out of respect for my roommate, who was there first, I can't have you staying there when that little box I live in can barely contain _two_ of us."

"I completely understand," he says in all his pre-programmed inhuman patience. "And I hope I'm not being annoying when I bring this up, but we do only have these three days together."

"I won't forget." Like hell I would forget. Although I kind of wish I could. I mean, I still haven't gotten over the fact that I actually willingly (however unknowingly) _signed up_ to have this happen to me.

Are there really women out there who understand what this is beforehand, and jump and scream in sheer joy over getting such a big _mess _in the mail?

"I'm just gonna have to make sure these three days are fun," I manage to say with a straight face. I am way too damn good at caving in.

But…

BAM, BAM, BAM! Luxury suite that goes for the equivalent of maybe $2,000 a night (and that's pushing it), with carpet I'd be happy to sleep on, a bed I could sail to China on, flat-screen plasma TV that's _way_ too big to fit in my apartment door, a fucking _chandelier_, a full-sized fridge. A door leading into a separate living room area complete with couches and a recliner, with yet another TV… a kitchen with a dining table, chairs, stove, oven, the works… and a bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub I could swim in, plus a separate shower stall, its own couch, and a vanity mirror fit for Britney Spears.

Sure enough, under the name of Yoshio Ishihara. ALL EXPENSES PAID.

Fuck my life. That's all I have to say.


End file.
